Leaping the Heap

When I’m stuck in a pit of malaise
and self-pity flares up in a blaze,
I am forced to concede
that for lightness and speed
this old body has seen better days.

But my spirit’s not bound by the hide
that is holding my fragments inside.
When the flesh is enmeshed
in itself, I’m refreshed
by escaping the prison of pride.

 

 

 

cc-by-nc-nd  2018 Mary Boren

 

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Precious Metals

When I die and my worth is extolled,
it won’t be for the riches I hold
or my saintly deportment,
despite tooth assortment
of porcelain, silver, and gold.

I am being replaced by degrees.
With titanium joints in my knees
and the plate in my wrist,
I should clang when I twist
like a full set of prison guard’s keys.

I’ve got pincers and pins in my toes
for reshaping the elegant pose
of my hooves in their shoes,
and a stash of loose screws
rattles ’round when I’m blowing my nose.

If you’re secretly hatching a plot
to heat a gargantuan pot
and melt me down early,
don’t bother — you surely
won’t get twenty bucks for the lot.

 

 

 

cc-by-nc-nd  2018 Mary Boren

 

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